plucking her fingers through my heart like a spider tending to its web or a harpist doing that big crescendo bit. but what the hell, i think that is supposed to be a good thing; i think this because romantic comedies & sitcoms tell me it is so. my kingdom layed low by the batting of eyelashes? this murder of crows in my stomach, these corvids they call butterflies? it feels like i swallowed a bottle of champagne & a box of razorblades. i'm shreds of black ribbon inside my ribcage, i just know it. she dyes her hair read & her head looks a rose, ready to bloom, body covered in thorns, & i'm just begging to get pricked.